Save Me From My Dreams
by Psychotic.Scam.Loves.Slash
Summary: Greg is dealing with the aftermath of everything, and it's hitting home hard. SPOILERS for FANNYSMACKIN' and POST MORTEM.


**Title: **Save Me From My Dreams

**Chapter:** 1 out of 3

**Author:** Psychotic Scam

**Rating:** FRT

**Warning/Spoiler:** _Fannysmackin', Play with Fire, _and _Post Mortem_.

**Summary:** Greg is feeling the aftermath of everything, and it's hitting hard at home.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own, I rent.

**Author's Note: **ANGST. I couldn't believe it when I watched it. DRAMA, DRAMA, DRAMA ANGST, ANGST, ANGST! Just, whoa tonight.

He's awake, cold and shivering, his eyes wet and throat dry and sore. He can _feel_ the bags under his eyes as he struggles with himself to get up, staggering into his kitchen and reaching for the first drink he can find. Luckily, it comes up to be alcoholic. A faint, satisfied smile grazes his lips as he takes out a rather large glass and fills it to the rim, shooting it back all in one sweep.

They won't stop. Not even after the testimony. For some reason, when he had gotten out of the trial, he'd felt reassured. He'd gone to cool himself down, coating his face with the cool water and momentarily decreasing his body temperature. His breath caught when he saw Aaron, the dead boy's brother, staring at him, a face with a look that didn't seem right. One to kill. They shared a brief moment of staring, before he spoke. He had kinda blanked out, but he had caught the last bit,

"Well, killer?" And Greg had sworn that if the other man hadn't shown up, he'd feel how it felt like to be beaten again. Then, also the moment in the parking lot, Aaron staring him in the face from his car, sending mental shivers sprawling down his spine. The strange man he'd never seen before coming up to him, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw his hands dig into his coat, assuming he'd toss out a gun and shoot his skull in and the brains out, only to hand him a file of paper of an order to sue him of a killing he didn't mean.

He still can't sleep.

Marla James' speech had torn him, made him feel guilty, like he'd purposely killed Demetrius. He feels the same sensation as he had felt when the brother stared him down both in the washroom and the parking lot. Ripples up and down his spine, the distinct memory of sitting there in his car haunted him. The world is darkening from the liquor he just realized he was still drinking, and couldn't help but think 'why not' as he let them flutter shut.

_Fog is drifting slowly against the ground, the group continuing their act before he calls it in, terror evident, and moving into the alley way, honking; warning. They flee. Except him. He's staring at him: those fake, bright blue eyes watching him, turning and running toward him. The vague sound of a revving engine; impact; silence... Then chaos, shattering, grabbing, pulling, jolts of pain, bone crunching kicks, jaw shattering punches, and violent words come together in a blur and mix; hate._ _Eyes. Running. Revving. Impact. Silence. Chaos. Shattering. Grabbing. Pulling. Pain. Words. HATE. Hate. Hate. Hate... _

_"Well, killer?" Hate._

_"I hope you know what you killed when you killed my brother.(1)" Hate. Pain._

_"You've been detained.(2)" Hate. Pain. Chaos. _

_Revving of the engine, and ducking out of the way, before turning and freezing with fear. In front of him is a darkened figure, clad in black, body lacking flesh, muscle, tissue, and organs. It's entirely a skeleton. A hood surrounds its head, a high scythe menacing and threat full, and Greg can't move. He looks down and there's the first victim of the gang attacks, and when he looks back up, it's not a skeleton. It's Demetrius. He raises the weapon, and with a 'swish' brings it down with a sickening..._

CRASH!

He jolts upward, crying out with enough power to wake the neighborhood as he sobs, screaming apologies and hands desperately clutching at his chest for comfort maybe; the shattered liquor glass forgotten on the wood tile floor. He's shuddering, and his hands are shaking again. They haven't since the Lab Explosion. And that was almost five years ago. He curses himself. He curses his life, and his decision that night, even though he knew he didn't have much of a choice. Nick and Warrick had already proved that there was no way he could've avoided him. He remembers what he said to Sofia.

_"I just want to be able to sleep again.(3)" _He bows his head into his open palms, his fingers surfing through his hair. No way is he going to sleep again. Fuck that. Giving a heavy sigh that racks his body; he gets to his feet, a lurch in his stand from the alcohol, and makes his way slowly to the kitchen when a knock on his door stops him. Sighing once more, he reverses himself so he's headed the opposite direction, and he opens the door to the apartment hallway, coming face to face with a kind young woman he'd seen everyone so often, who in fact lived right next door.

"Are you alright?" She asks, and he immediately identifies her accent as Australian. He gives a weak, fake smile, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.

"Everything's perfect, ma'am." But the look on her face doesn't seem convinced. She gives a smile to match his, though it's sympathetic and genuine, before she spoke again,

"Your eyes say otherwise." It wasn't rude, nor sarcastic, or 'pointing-out-the-obvious'. It was genuine concern. He smiles again, nodding his head.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you." He says finally after a brief moment of silence that seemed to drag on. She shakes her head with that perfect smile still plastered on her face.

"It's fine," She says, and reaches through her jeans (which Greg just noticed she had on, at something in the morning) and for a fearful period of time, Greg thought she was reaching for a gun. Instead, she pulled out a card, and handed it to him.

"Give me a call sometime." Her smile reassured him, and he returned it with a real one of his own. She gives a wave and goodbye, walking back to her door and then she's gone. He shuts his own door and peers down at the card.

"_Jodi Cardinale: Trouble with coping? Need help? Call the Psychiatrist that can help you_," He read aloud to himself, amusement edging his voice. He just might take her up on that offer. Might, being the keyword. He tosses the card down onto the table beside the door and returns to the couch, finally remembering the mess that is the poor liquor glass and liquid, currently residing on the tiled floor. He nibbles his lip, looking at it skeptically, before turning to the phone, his eyes focusing on it. Right now, he doesn't need a Psychiatrist. He needs something else.

After a moment of debating with himself, he finally comes to an answer, reaching over to grab the phone and punch in the numbers. The dial tone meets him, then ringing, then, a groggy, "'Allo?" He can't help his sudden tears, and the person on the end of the line becomes alert.

"Greg?" He nods miserably, before realizing that the occupant of the other line can't see, and mutters a yes, silent sobs racking his lithe frame and making his shoulders shudder. The soft, southern drawl on the other end whispers soothing words to him, calming him and reluctantly, the sobs die down but don't die away. Once he can acutely form a sentence, he breathes,

"I'm scared, Nick."

**A/N:** Well, since they had two names for Mother (Marla, Cynthia) James and Brother (Aaron, Marshall) James, I went with the first in each bracket, since that was the one I saw first. Just thought I'd verify that. And now,

1 - 3: I don't know the _exact_ quotes there, so it's guess of memory. So, yeah. This was all brought on by Greg's quote, _"I just want to be able to sleep again."_


End file.
